Chapter 6: The Council's Wrath
The warm hum of the Salt Harvest's engines was a constant, thrumming presence in the deck plates, a vibration that worked its way up through the soles of Dave's boots and settled somewhere in his spine. He'd been standing at the bridge's viewport for the better part of an hour, watching the distant, pinprick light of Portia shrink to nothing, his reflection a ghost in the glass. Behind him, the data crystal sat on the console like a drop of frozen venom, still wrapped in the protective cloth Jane had found in the ship's med kit.
It had been almost too easy.
The banking house on Portia had been a monument to discretion, all brushed chrome and hushed voices and tellers whose eyes slid past you like you weren't there. Dave had worn Mercer's best suit, a charcoal thing that pulled across the shoulders, and Jane had transformed herself into someone else entirely—hair pinned up, a borrowed dress clinging to her frame, her hollowed cheeks painted over with a deft hand. She'd played the heiress perfectly, all cool disdain and dismissive glances, while he'd played the flustered accountant. The safety deposit box had yielded its contents without a fight. The crystal was heavier than it looked, dense with data, and as they'd walked out into Portia's artificial twilight, Dave had felt the weight of it pulling at his jacket pocket like a live grenade.
Too easy was a phrase that had kept him alive in the MP corps. Too easy meant you were walking into something you hadn't seen yet.
"There's a problem."
Mercer's voice came from the pilot's seat, tight and clipped, stripped of its usual gravel. Dave turned, his eyes snapping to the sensor array, and felt his gut clench. The screen showed three contacts, closing fast, their transponders flickering with the frantic, stuttering signature of ships trying to hide their identity and failing.
"Fighters," Mercer said, his hands moving over the controls with practiced efficiency. "Fed-class interceptors, modified. They've got the legs to catch us, and they're packing more than they should."
Dave crossed to the console, his eyes scanning the readouts. "How long?"
"Ten minutes, maybe less. They're burning hard."
Jane came up behind him, her hand settling on his shoulder, her voice low and steady."Voss."
Dave nodded. He'd known it the moment the contacts had appeared. The interrogation in the cargo hold had been brief and unpleasant, conducted with a pair of pliers and a cold, measured calm that had made even Mercer look away. Voss had talked—about the kill squad, about the Council's contingency plans, about the tracking device they'd planted in his shoulder before he'd gone into hiding, a failsafe they'd activated the moment he'd been taken. The information had come out in a torrent, but it hadn't changed the fundamental equation.
They were hunted.
"I should have killed him," Dave said, his voice flat.
"Then we'd have nothing," Jane countered. Her hand tightened on his shoulder. "We'd be flying blind."
"Now we're flying with a target painted on our ass." He turned to Mercer. "Can we outrun them?"
Mercer shook his head, his jaw working. "Not with the fuel we've got. We used too much on the jump. We'd be running on fumes before we cleared the asteroid belt."
Dave's mind was already working, cataloging options, discarding them in rapid succession. Hiding was out—the modified interceptors would have the sensor suites to find them in the debris field. Fighting was suicide. Running was death by a slower means. He was still turning it over when Jane spoke, her voice thoughtful.
"The crystal.The evidence."
"What about it?"
"Voss said the Council will do anything to keep it out of the authorities' hands. What if we use it as bait?"
Dave turned to look at her, his eyes narrowing. "You're talking about a trap."
"I'm talking about turning their strength against them." She moved to the console, her fingers tracing the sensor display where the three contacts burned bright. "They're coming to kill us and take the crystal. So let them come. Let them think they've won. And when they get close enough, we give them something to chase that isn't us."
Mercer swiveled his chair around, his eyebrows climbing. "You want to throw the evidence at them?"
"I want to throw something at them that looks like the evidence." Jane's smile was thin and hard, a blade's edge in the dim light. "We've got a beacon in the med kit, the emergency kind. We rig it with a decoy, program it to transmit the same signal pattern as the crystal's encryption, and launch it on a ballistic course toward the nearest inhabited planet. The kill squad will have to split forces to chase it down. It buys us time."
"Time to do what?" Dave asked.
"Time to get close enough to make them pay for underestimating us."
The silence hung between them, heavy with the weight of the decision. Then Dave nodded, a slow and deliberate motion, his voice rough. "Do it."
The next twenty minutes were a blur of motion, punctuated by the stark, urgent whine of the proximity alarms. Mercer worked the controls with a grim efficiency, his hands never pausing as he programmed the decoy beacon and loaded it into the launch tube. Jane helped him, her movements steady and sure, a calm that belied the tension coiling in her shoulders. Dave split his attention between the sensor display and the cargo hold, where Voss sat chained and silent, his eyes tracking them with a wariness that bordered on respect.
"Launching decoy," Mercer announced, his finger pressing a final key. The ship shuddered as the beacon shot free, a small, dark object that tumbled away into the void, its signal already flickering to life.
"Contacts are splitting," Dave said, watching the display. Two of the interceptors broke formation, angling toward the decoy's trajectory. The third held its course, closing fast. "One incoming. Still locked on us."
"Kill squad lead," Mercer said. "The one who's not willing to delegate."
Dave stared at the lone contact, his mind racing. "Can we take it?"
Mercer let out a short, humorless laugh. "This ship's got the armament of a cargo hauler with a bad attitude. We've got two laser cannons that haven't been serviced since the war, and a missile launcher that's currently doubling as a storage rack for Jane's spare boots."
"Then we get creative." Dave turned, his eyes finding Jane's. "You said you wanted to make them pay."
She nodded, her hands already reaching for the emergency suit Mercer had pointed to, a worn and patched thing that smelled of old sweat and recycled air. "I know what I said."
The interceptor closed in, its own weapons powering up, the low growl of charging capacitors audible through the hull. Dave took the copilot seat, his fingers resting on the manual controls, his eyes on the sensor display. The enemy ship was fast, agile, and built for combat. The Salt Harvest was none of those things. But it had one advantage: the interceptor had to get close to land a killing blow, and when it did, it would be in range of their own pathetic guns.
"Pull her around," Dave said. "Bring us straight at them."
Mercer shot him a look, his eyes wide. "Are you insane?"
"Probably." Dave's hand tightened on the yoke. "But they're not expecting us to charge. And people who don't expect things get surprised."
The ship's engines roared as Mercer threw the throttles forward, the deck tilting beneath them as they swung onto a collision course. The interceptor's pilot clearly hadn't anticipated it—the ship's approach wavered, its weapons fire going wide, a spray of glowing plasma that streaked harmlessly past the viewport.
"Hold your fire," Dave ordered, his voice calm, almost conversational. "Wait until they've committed."
The interceptor recovered, its nose swinging back toward them, its cannons flashing. Dave twisted the yoke, sending the Salt Harvest into a corkscrew that made Jane grab the console for support. The plasma bolts screamed past, close enough that Dave felt the heat through the hull, close enough that the sensor display flickered with ionization static.
"Now," he said.
Mercer fired.
The twin laser cannons spat a pair of coherent beams that lanced across the void, catching the interceptor's forward shields at an angle. The enemy ship lurched, its course wobbling, and Dave saw the moment of vulnerability—a shimmering, flickering gap in its defense.
"Jane, missile!"
She was already at the launcher, the boots cleared away, her hands on the controls."Firing."
The missile streaked out, a sleek and ugly dart, its warhead hunting with a single-minded purpose. The interceptor's pilot must have seen it, must have known it was over, because the ship tried to turn, to run, to do anything to escape. It was too late. The missile caught it amidships, and the explosion bloomed like a flower made of fire, a silent, violent bloom that filled the viewscreen for a single heartbeat.
Then it was gone, and the void was empty again.
The silence on the bridge was profound, broken only by the steady hum of the engines and the ragged sound of Mercer's breathing. Jane let out a shaky exhale, her hands still resting on the launcher controls, her knuckles white.
"They'll send more," she said.
"Probably." Dave's hands were still wrapped around the yoke, his knuckles just as white. "But they'll have to regroup first. That buys us time."
"Time to do what?" Mercer asked, his voice hoarse.
"Time to find somewhere to lay low and figure out our next move." Dave released the yoke, flexing his fingers, feeling the burn of adrenaline bleeding away. "We've got the evidence. We've got a name. Now we need to find someone who can help us use it."
The ship angled toward the distant star of a small, unremarkable system, its name a smear of static on the navigation charts. It was a system no one visited, a system no one remembered. A system where three people and a prisoner could vanish for a while, long enough to plan, long enough to prepare, long enough to decide how to burn the constellation to the ground.
Jane stepped up beside Dave, her shoulder brushing his. She was still wearing the emergency suit, her hair escaping its confines, falling in tangled strands across her face. She looked exhausted, hollowed out, but her eyes were bright with something that looked like hope.
"We did it," she said, her voice low. "We actually did it."
"We survived," Dave corrected. "That's not the same thing."
"Maybe not." She reached up, her hand cupping his cheek, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "But it's a start."
He turned into her touch, his eyes closing for a moment, feeling the warmth of her skin against his. Then he pulled her into his arms, his mouth finding hers, a kiss that was hard and desperate and tasted of adrenaline and recycled air. She kissed him back with a ferocity that matched his own, her hands gripping his jacket, pulling him closer, her body pressing against his.
"Fuck," she breathed against his lips. "I thought we were dead. I thought—"
"I know." He kissed her again, harder, cutting off the words."I know."
Mercer pointedly cleared his throat from the pilot's seat, his eyes fixed on the viewscreen. "I'm going to go check on our prisoner," he said, his voice strained. "You two, uh, take a minute.
The door hissed shut behind Mercer, and the silence that followed was its own kind of pressure. Jane stood frozen at the console, her fingers still resting on the launch controls, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. She looked at Dave, and he saw the tremor running through her hands, the adrenaline crash already beginning to set in. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown, and there was a wildness in them that hadn't been there before.
"I need—" she started, then stopped, her voice cracking. "I need to feel something else. I need to feel alive."
Dave closed the distance between them in two strides, his hands finding her hips, pulling her against him. She came willingly, desperately, her mouth crashing into his with a force that was almost violent. The kiss was all teeth and tongue and ragged breath, a raw and desperate thing that tasted of fear and adrenaline and something deeper, something that had been building since the moment he'd pulled her from under that bed.
"I thought I was going to lose you," he growled against her lips. "I thought they were going to take you away from me."
"Fuck that," she hissed, her hands working at his belt with frantic, fumbling fingers. "Fuck that shit. I'm here. I'm alive. And I need you to make me feel it."
He lifted her, her legs wrapping around his waist, her back hitting the cold metal of the navigation console. The screen flickered behind her, displaying the empty void where the interceptor had been, the only light in the dim bridge. She let out a sharp gasp as the metal pressed into her spine, but she didn't pull away—she pulled him closer, her heels digging into his ass, her hips grinding against his.
"Do it," she breathed. "Fuck me, Dave. Fuck me like you mean it."
He didn't need to be told twice. He shoved her pants down, the worn fabric catching on her hips before she kicked them free, her legs spreading wide as he positioned himself at her entrance. She was already slick, already swollen, and when he pushed inside her, they both groaned, a sound that was half animal and half prayer.
"Jesus fucking Christ," she gasped, her head falling back, her fingers clawing at his shoulders through his shirt. "Yes. Fucking yes."
He slammed into her, a hard and punishing rhythm that shook the console. She took it, met it, pushed back against him with a ferocity that matched his own. The burn of the pace, the raw, primal urgency of it, was the only thing that made sense in that moment. The ship hummed around them, the sensor display casting their shadowed forms in cold blue light, and the void outside was silent and endless.
"Look at me," he commanded, his hand fisting in her hair, yanking her head back. She opened her eyes, and he saw the tears glistening there, the fear and the anger and the hunger all tangled together. "You're alive. You're here. And I'm not letting anyone take you from me."
"Then prove it," she snarled. "Make me feel it."
He drove into her harder, faster, his rhythm becoming something desperate and consuming. The console dug into her back, and she didn't care. The cold metal bit into her bare skin, and she didn't care. All that mattered was the feel of him inside her, the stretch and the burn and the glorious, overwhelming sensation of being filled and claimed and wanted.
Her orgasm hit her like a shockwave, unexpected and devastating. She cried out, his name torn from her lips like a curse and a prayer all at once, her body convulsing around him as the pleasure crashed through her. He followed moments later, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as he emptied himself into her, his hips grinding against hers as the wave finally broke.
For a long moment, they stayed there, tangled together, breathing hard, hearts pounding in unison. Dave pressed his forehead to hers, his eyes closed, his voice a ragged whisper. "I've got you. I've got you, Jane."
She reached up, her hand trembling as she touched his face, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "I know," she said, her voice soft and raw. "I know you do."
The ship's alarm chose that moment to shriek, a piercing klaxon that shattered the fragile peace. Dave pulled out of her with a harsh curse, his hands already moving to button his pants, his eyes snapping to the sensor display. New contacts.Four of them. Closing fast.
"Motherfucker," he spat. "They found us."
Jane was already pulling her pants up, her fingers fumbling with the fastenings, her face a mask of controlled urgency."How many?"
"Four. Still out of weapons range, but they're burning hard." He hit the comm. "Mercer, get back to the bridge.We've got company."
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Mercer's voice crackled back, tight and strained. "I'm on my way."
Jane's hand found Dave's, squeezing hard. "We're not going to outrun them."
"Then we make a stand." Her eyes were hard, determined, a survivor's glint that cut through the lingering haze of their coupling. "We use the asteroid field ahead. Hide in the debris, pick them off as they come through."
Dave looked at the display, at the approaching contacts, at the distant smear of rock and ice that could be their salvation or their grave. Then he looked at Jane, at the woman who had been broken and rebuilt and broken again, and who still found the strength to fight.
"If we're going to do this," he said, "we're going to do it together."
The asteroid field loomed ahead, a sprawling graveyard of rock and ice that stretched across the void like a scar on the fabric of space. Dave's hands moved over the controls with a practiced economy, guiding the Salt Harvest into the maze of tumbling debris, his eyes flicking between the sensor display and the viewport. The four contacts were still closing, their formation tight and disciplined, and he could feel the weight of their intent pressing against his skull like a headache building behind his eyes.
"Stay close to the big ones," Jane said, her voice low and steady as she leaned over the navigation console. "The smaller debris will tear us apart if we clip it wrong."
" Then don't let me clip it wrong," Dave muttered, his fingers dancing across the thrusters. "Give me a path."
She traced a route across the display, her finger leaving a glowing line through the field's chaos. He followed it, the ship banking hard around a tumbling chunk of iron-nickel that would have turned them into confetti. The proximity alarms shrieked, a deafening wail that cut through the bridge, and he killed them with a savage stab of his thumb.
"I count four still on our tail," Mercer reported from the gunner's seat, his voice tight. "They're splitting up. Two going high, two coming low. They're trying to box us in."
Dave grimaced, his jaw working. "Then we give them a target that isn't us." He keyed the ship's comm, routing it to the cargo hold. "Voss. You still awake down there?"
"A pleasant surprise," Voss's voice crackled back, hoarse and dry. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me."
"Good. I need you to earn your keep. Mercer, drop the cargo bay doors. We're going to give our friends something to chase."
Jane shot him a look, her eyes narrow. "What are you doing?"
"Using our assets." He turned to her, his face hard. "Voss is the one they want. The Council's kill squad doesn't care about us—they want him and the crystal. So we give them a choice."
Mercer's voice cut through, sharp and disbelieving. "You're going to toss our prisoner out the airlock?"
"Not the prisoner. The bait." Dave's hand moved to a secondary console, pulling up the ship's manifest. "We've got a spare emergency pod in the cargo hold. We strap Voss in, set it on a course for the nearest station, and let the kill squad split its forces trying to decide who to chase."
"And then what?" Jane's voice was quiet, controlled, but he could hear the edge beneath it. "They'll know it's a trick."
"They'll know it's a possibility. And that's enough to make them hesitate." He met her eyes, holding her gaze. "Hesitation gets us time. Time gets us distance. Distance gets us alive."
She stared at him for a long moment, then nodded, a single sharp motion. "Do it."
The next few minutes were a blur of coordinated urgency. Mercer dragged Voss out of the cargo hold, his face a mask of grim determination as he hauled the wounded man across the deck. In the chaos, he spotted Mercer's handiwork—the Zephyrian's quarrel, a tight-wrapped bundle of charges in the cargo bay's shadowed corner, meant to turn the ship into scrap the moment escape looked impossible. Voss's eyes were wide, his voice a ragged protest as they strapped him into the emergency pod, the cracked seals and patched hull making it a coffin with delusions of flight.
" you're throwing me to the wolves," Voss gasped, his fingers clawing at the pod's rim. "You're—"
"Not throwing you," Dave cut him off, his voice flat. " Dangling you. There's a difference."
He slammed the pod's hatch, sealed it, and punched the launch sequence. The pod shot out of the cargo bay on a plume of compressed air, tumbling into the asteroid field with its distress beacon blazing. For a moment, the sensor display showed the four contacts wavering, their formation stuttering as they processed the new variable.
Then two of them broke off, angling toward the pod.
"Half of them took the bait," Mercer reported. "The other two are still coming."
Dave's hands found the yoke again, his voice cold and calm. "Then we deal with the other two."
He threw the Salt Harvest into a hard port turn, the engines screaming as they reversed thrust and cut through a narrow gap between two massive chunks of rock. The pursuing fighters followed, faster than he'd anticipated, wiping the sweat from his brow as the proximity alarms shrieked once more. He was about to slam the ship into a tumble when a new signal blazed across the sensor array—a ship, large and heavily armed, emerging from the shadow of a nearby asteroid.
It was a corvette-class vessel, bristling with cannons and missile tubes, its hull scarred and patched with the marks of years of combat. It flew no colors, no identification, its transponder silent, but its weapons were already trained on the two pursuing fighters.
"What the hell is that?" Jane breathed.
"Reinforcements," Mercer said, his voice awed. "But whose?"
The corvette's cannons spoke, a volley of plasma bolts that lanced across the void and caught the lead fighter square in the hull. The explosion was brief, brilliant, and final. The second fighter spun wildly, trying to escape, but a second volley ripped it apart before it could even turn.
Dave stared at the display, his heart pounding, his mind racing through possibilities. Then a message came over the comm, encrypted and anonymous, resolved into a single line of text.
Captain Solano of the Free Lance. You've got something we want. Dock and talk.
Jane's hand found his, her fingers cold but steady. "Allies?"
Dave's jaw tightened, a slow, weary breath escaping him. "Let's find out."